


Rhoeas

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond is there to soothe Maglor’s pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhoeas

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The air is intoxicating.

Elrond walks with his head held high, feet drifting as though in a dream, robes sweeping soundlessly across the meager corridors—something _calls_ to him, like the way Maglor’s songs often do, but this is more scent than song. And it’s something new, something _deep_ , that Elrond can’t put his finger on. He _wants_ this thing, whatever lies at the end, and it draws him forward nearly in a trance. He follows it to the door of Maglor’s chambers, and there he stops. 

He realizes, abrupt and with both shock and _shame_ , that he’s _aroused_. Nearly painfully so. He stands at attention with his skin on fire, his crotch stirring, his fingers clawing to _grab something_. He’s breathing hard. He leans his forehead against the door, dark hair slipping down over his shoulders, not quite as dark as Maglor’s. The thought of Maglor makes him _burn_. He doesn’t understand, but he thinks, perhaps, that he should leave.

He can’t. He takes the handle and twists it, pressing forward. He’s always wanted Maglor, since the moment he first reached adulthood, perhaps before, and it’s become too strong to deny. He slips into his warden’s chambers, halting again at what he finds. 

He spots Maglor instantly, atop the large, unmade bed, white sheets cast aside as though in fervor. Maglor is perched in the middle, bent double, his arms around his stomach. Elrond closes the door behind himself at the exact moment Maglor looks up, eyes thick and hazy, cheeks flushed. He looks as beautiful as always, but more _tempting_ than Elrond’s used to.

With the door securely shut, Elrond hurries forward. Maglor breathes his name, a shaky, questioning, “ _Elrond_...?” 

He climbs onto the bed. It’s stiffer than his own, but that doesn’t surprise him—Maglor always gives him the best of what little they have. He comes right up to Maglor, so close and yet too far apart for his raging body, but he restrains himself, always patient. Maglor tries to buckle over again, but Elrond gathers Maglor’s face in his hands and holds it up. He asks, concerned, “What is wrong?”

Maglor puts one hand over Elrond’s. The other, Elrond lifts to brush aside some of the black strands clinging with sweat to Maglor’s forehead. Elrond’s never seen him sweat before, not even in training against Maedhros’ might, but now Elrond can _smell_ it acutely, and it sends a shiver up his spine. Maglor squeezes his palm and mutters, “You... you are an alpha.” Then Maglor closes his eyes, a great shudder wracking through him. Elrond tilts his head to the side. 

He’s heard of those dynamics, of course, but never paid them much mind—there aren’t many elves in their home to consider, though now he knows why he’s never had a heat; he’s more than old enough to have surpassed the first one. It brings Elrond’s mind to what’s happening now, and his eyes widen, his body arching closer; he breathes in _Maglor_ and knows, murmuring, “You are... an omega...?” Maglor nods his head in Elrond’s light grasp and licks his pink lips. 

Then he grunts bitterly, “In _heat_.” Elrond, knowing it, still feels his chest constrict.

“Are you in pain?”

He knows the answer before it comes. Maglor admits, “Yes,” in such a ragged breath that it hurts just to hear. Still, Maglor sucks in a shuddering breath and goes on, “But that is... that is not your concern...”

He tries to straighten, though obviously in vain, pulling out of Elrond’s hands to sit properly. He’s taller than Elrond, but not like this—he doesn’t make it far before he totters and seems to crumple again, Elrond there to catch him. He insists, “I... I will choose an alpha or a beta to... soothe my need. There should be at least one who will accept me... Maedhros... Maedhros will find someone...”

“You are not claimed yet?” Elrond surmises, surprised; Maglor is so _perfect_ , kind and strong and artful, _gorgeous_ , surely he must have many suitors. But Maglor shakes his head. 

“My... my last lover... died in the war...” he admits, and Elrond asks no more, nodding succinctly. He’s sure that must only add more pain. “It is alright...”

It’s nothing of the sort. Elrond pulls Maglor against himself when Maglor stirs again, finding it strange that he should be the sturdy one. But he is. He sits strong as Maglor wilts into his body, head tucking into his shoulder, hot breath stirring through Elrond’s thin robes. The thought of Maglor going to another makes something rise in Elrond’s chest, makes him want to grit his teeth and _growl_ , but he stays soft for Maglor. He strokes through Maglor’s silken hair in what he hopes is a soothing gesture, but it only serves to make Maglor writhe in his arms. 

“Send... send for Maedhros...” Maglor pleads. “He will find—”

“Can it not be me?” Elrond asks, cutting Maglor off without thinking. He’s surprised himself, and Maglor stills in his arms, trying vainly to push away. Elrond helps him find purchase on his own, so that he can sit apart enough to look in Elrond’s eyes. His own look as though they want to go wide but can’t, not with lashes so heavy and pupils blown so wide. Elrond tries to be firm, to show on his face that he means his offer.

After a few seconds of only laboured breath, Maglor says, “But you are so young...”

“I am old enough,” Elrond answers, sure that Maglor knows it too.

Maglor still surprises him with a bitter laugh and a muttered, “Clearly so, if your body acts this way, with the want to take an omega.”

“I do,” Elrond confirms, even though he’s sure that Maglor can sense his sincerity, just as he can sense Maglor’s _need_. He still adds, to make sure that Maglor knows it isn’t just this entrancing call, “I have always found you so very _attractive_ , Maglor, and you have always been so good to me...”

Maglor looks like he might protest, but Elrond leans forward. He presses a tentative kiss to Maglor’s slightly parted lips. Maglor, to his utter delight, kisses him back, though chastely. It’s a warm, sweet thing, not Elrond’s first but the first that he’s desired so greatly. When Maglor retracts, he shivers, groaning, “This is dangerous. Elrond... this is such a large thing, to claim an omega so...”

“I know. And I am ready.” He’s sure of it now. Maglor still looks worried, as he always does when Elrond takes on responsibility that he deems too much. Elrond finds Maglor’s hand again and squeezes it, promising, “You have taken care of me for so long. Please, let me take care of you the way I wish.”

Maglor sighs. But then he nods slowly and whispers, “I apologize for being so weak.”

Elrond kisses that away and insists, “You are not weak; you are wondrous.” He kisses Maglor again, a little harder, and opens his mouth enough to _taste_ Maglor’s lips, soft and so _perfect_. Every other pleasure Elrond’s experienced already pales compared to this; he cups Maglor’s cheek and _adores_ the way Maglor fits against him.

He feels a strange urge and gives in to it, pushing Maglor gently back down into the bed, where he scoops Maglor up by the waist and rearranges him, brings his head to rest against the pillows and the rest of him spread out across the mattress. Maglor’s trembling has subsided somewhat, and the thought that it might be because of the promise of _Elrond_ gives Elrond such immediate joy. He pecks Maglor’s forehead, feeling Maglor’s lashes flutter against his chin. 

Then he sits up again and begins to part Maglor’s robes. They’re simple, white and nearly sheer, meant for sleeping and little else. The sash is easy to pull aside, the rest parting creamily around his sides—Elrond brushes it all away, lifting Maglor’s arms one at a time to pull them free. When he’s tugged the fabric out from under Maglor’s rear, he sits up to admire the smooth expanse before him. Maglor lies still for Elrond to examine. His body is long, lithe but shapely, lightly toned in muscles from ancient battles, lined, here and there, with pale, mostly faded scars. His hair fans around him, some of it caught along his shoulders and clinging to his back—he glistens with a thin sheen of sweat from his own exertion. Elrond dares to touch his cheek and slides lightly down his neck, his heaving chest, along his flat stomach to dip into his thighs. Elrond uses both hands to touch those, squeezing to feel Maglor’s warm flesh in his palms. Maglor releases a little moan, arching up into it. His head tilts back, lips parted. Elrond eyes Maglor’s long cock, hard and jutting up, thin and scantily veined, pinker at the hood, but doesn’t yet touch it. He murmurs, half in awe, “You are very beautiful, my Maglor.” He doesn’t know where the ‘my’ comes from, but he finds that he _means_ it.

Maglor answers in a breathy sigh, “Thank you. I am glad that I could please my alpha.” Elrond smiles. 

He plays more with Maglor’s thighs while Maglor’s fingers twist into the sheets. Each touch gives Elrond more courage, confirms, with Maglor’s subtle noises and acquiescence, that it’s alright. Elrond explores much, trails down Maglor’s legs, back up again, over his torso, then returns to dip between his legs, wanting to go _lower_ , and does. He lets his fingers push back between the cleft of Maglor’s taut cheeks, rubbing until he finds a small, puckered hole, leaking some strange liquid. With a hitch of breath, Elrond muses, “It is true, then. You are wet for me.” He’d read of this, but it didn’t quite prepare himself for _feeling_ it; his own body has never reacted so. But then, he’s of different stock. 

Maglor adds, “Stretched, too.” Elrond bites his lip, stifling a moan at the mere thought. Maglor reaches up to clasp Elrond’s arm, sighing, “It is a sign that I wish for you.” Elrond nods. He wants Maglor just as badly. 

He still prods at Maglor’s entrance with his finger, making sure, but a single digit pops inside without difficulty, though the fit is tight. Maglor’s juices make it easier, his velvety walls shivering as Elrond strokes at them, sinking his finger deeper before adding another. He spreads Maglor on them, until Maglor makes a keening noise and squeezes Elrond’s arms, begging, “ _Please_.”

Elrond withdraws his hand. He can’t wait much longer himself. He wipes his fingers off in the sheets and climbs back between Maglor’s legs, lifting them to spread around himself, one over each thigh. Then he scoots closer and parts his robes at the bottom, having to hike his waistband higher, and pulls himself out enough for this—he’s been hard since he first smelled Maglor’s heat in the air. Maglor bends his legs back more to help, and Elrond takes a moment to enjoy the new view: Maglor’s soft cheeks and his moist, pink hole, winking open in readiness. It looks very much like it _wants him_ , and Elrond’s grateful to oblige.

With odd surety, Elrond lines himself up and crawls forward, coming over Maglor on hands and knees. He’s never taken an omega so, but his body seems to know just what to do, his mind made up. He presses himself at Maglor’s entrance and holds onto Maglor’s hips when Maglor tries to buck into him, first bending down to brush his lips over Maglor’s. Maglor returns the kiss, and Elrond lets it run its course before he pushes slowly forward, the head of his cock popping neatly inside. 

Maglor gasps at once. His eyebrows knit together, eyes fluttering closed, and Elrond grabs his face in one hand, thumbs his cheek and takes it all in, pushing deeper; Maglor’s face is exquisite. He takes each subtle thrust with a high-pitched hitch of breath and his hand darting to Elrond’s. Elrond’s other hand, elbow supporting himself, weaves into the curtain of Maglor’s hair. Sinking his body into Maglor’s is a pure _pleasure_ like nothing else. Maglor’s body seems to suck at him: tight, hot, wet and quivering, and their connection seems to burn beyond their skin, mind to mind, soul to soul. Elrond can _feel_ Maglor in every part of his being, and feel, in turn, the wavering and hopelessness of _heat_. He pushes back his own adoration, protection, security, he wraps around Maglor and promises to keep him safe, something that Maglor responds to with a needy moan and burst of sheer devotion.

When Elrond’s as deep as he can go, buried to the hilt, he stills, allowing his precious omega a chance to breathe, to adjust. Maglor seems to need it. Elrond can fee how overwhelmed he is. 

Elrond kisses his cheek, his chin, nuzzles into him and moans, “ _Maglor_ ,” while Maglor keens and clings to him. It’s strange, in a way, to have such a great Elven warrior reduced to such delicacy. Elrond has the tremendous urge to _claim_ him, bite brutal marks into his fair skin to show the world that this handsome creature is _Elrond’s_ , and his alone, but Elrond’s more mature than simple hormones and keeps himself in check. He’ll mark Maglor later, if he can. For now, he shifts slowly out, then presses back inside, and rocks into a steady, careful rhythm: _making love_ to Maglor. Maglor trembles in his arms and takes each thrust with such grace. Elrond thought, somehow, that this would be messier, but Maglor makes this, like everything, an art, and his voice is still music to Elrond’s ears.

His body is singing. It clenches around Elrond, squeezes him, so incredibly _hot_ , so soft and wonderful. It’s hard to leave each time, but the friction of driving in and out is addicting. Elrond turns to scatter Maglor’s face in kisses, everywhere he can reach, often avoiding Maglor’s mouth so Maglor can _breathe_ , though Elrond still strays there on occasion. His thrusts are steady, sure. 

When he next leaves Maglor’s mouth, Maglor asks, throat sounding raw, “What have I done to deserve such a gentle lover?”

So many things. But Elrond doesn’t have the wherewithal right now to explain it all, to go into every detail about how _deserving_ Maglor is, how he isn’t the monster he often sees himself, oath or no. Elrond understands and forgives. He can feel now, more than ever, how _good_ Maglor’s heart is beneath it all. Maglor still builds with that pain, until there’s water at the corner of his eyes. Elrond bends to lick it away when the first tear falls, his thumb wiping at the other side. He murmurs, “ _Shh_ ,” and presses his forehead to Maglor’s, their bodies moving in tandem. Maglor’s arms wrap tightly around him. Elrond rocks into him and soothes him and pushes _love_ through his body and mind, trying to fill Maglor with it, until he’s sure he’ll burst. 

He can feel Maglor growing close. He slips one hand between their bodies, relinquishing his hold on Maglor’s face, so that he can wrap his fingers around Maglor’s leaking cock. It pulses for him, hot and ready, and Elrond pumps it in time with their thrusts, slick with Maglor’s own sweat. Maglor rocks into him, moaning. Elrond’s close himself but drives everything he is into _Maglor’s_ being, so that Maglor can be well again. 

With a strangled cry, Maglor comes first, arching up and bursting between them, his seed splashing all over Elrond’s hand. Elrond dutifully pumps it out, his hips still moving, driving, he knows, into that certain angle that gives Maglor the most pleasure. Maglor writhes and takes it, spilling several jets before he’s through. Then he stills, panting hard, and Elrond is quick to follow. 

His own release is _glorious_. He fills Maglor up, blissful, dizzy and with Maglor’s name on his lips, painting Maglor’s insides with everything he has. His thrusts die slowly out, until there’s nothing left, and then he sways, wanting to collapse but careful with his weight, so that when he lies down across Maglor’s bare, sweaty body, he’s still supporting himself. 

He needs a few minutes, still tucked inside, before he asks, “...Are you better?”

Maglor’s eyes had fallen closed. They open again to look at Elrond, no less hazy, but an easier smile on Maglor’s lips. He murmurs, “You will be a great lord some day.” It doesn’t answer the question and makes little sense to Elrond. 

But he responds, wishing to keep the peace, “Then you will be a prince at my side.” Maglor’s smile is a bit sad but genuine. 

Wrapping an arm around Elrond’s trim waist, Maglor rolls them over to their sides. Elrond reaches for a blanket, kicked away before he ever arrived, and pulls the thin fabric up over them, Maglor’s legs still around his and their bodies still attached. It’s an odd feeling, staying inside, but their connection seems to demand it, and Elrond isn’t yet ready to relinquish that. He tucks them in and stays close to Maglor, spent but happy.

Maglor asks quietly, with perhaps a note of amusement, “Will my alpha stay the night?”

Elrond responds around a yawn, “I will stay with you always.” Then, on some strange stirring inside himself, he’s driven to add, “You will always have a home in my arms.”

Maglor looks more peaceful than he ever has. He snuggles forward into Elrond’s arms, brightly affectionate in this tender moment, and Elrond cuddles back. Then Elrond has the luxury of watching Maglor falls soundly asleep, feeling wondrous.

* * *

Centuries later, when Maglor wanders up from the shore, Elrond is still there, waiting for him.


End file.
